Refuge
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: It has been over a week that they buried John's wife and unborn child, and the one thing he really needs is to seek refuge. PG-13, Gen (no slash)


**Title: **Refuge  
><strong>Author: <strong>TeeJay  
><strong>Genre:<strong> Gen  
><strong>CharactersPairings: **John, Sherlock  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Warning: <strong>More or less unspecific spoilers for all of season 3, mention of major character death  
><strong>Summary: <strong>It has been over a week that they buried John's wife and unborn child, and the one thing he really needs is to seek refuge.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Let me just say that, rather ironically, I don't want to see it happen on the actual TV show the way I wrote it. Even though we know Mary dies in the original Conan Doyle stories, and it's probably inevitable that it will happen on TV, I don't _want_ it to happen before series 7 or so. Still, the image of a distraught John seeking refuge in his best friend's flat was just too sharp in my mind not to want to write it down. Thanks to sg4iy and QuiteExtraordinary for the beta.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> Not mine. Belongs to Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, the BBC and whoever else might wish to claim ownership. I'm just borrowing.

* * *

><p>"Sir?"<p>

John's head jerked up, his senses so dull that it took him a second to realize he must have dozed off during the cab ride.

"Sir, this is Baker Street 221B," the cab driver tried again.

John quickly glanced through the window, taking in the familiar buildings, the painted wooden doors, the red awning above Speedy's Café. He took out his wallet and produced a few notes to pay the fare. "Thank you."

A light drizzle and a cold gust of wind greeted him when he exited the black cab, and he stopped for a moment in front of the black door with the golden knocker that was slightly askew. He had stood here many times before, unlocking the door... never completely sure of the mood that Sherlock would be in when he entered the more than slightly untidy flat with the eclectic wallpaper.

All of this should feel familiar, but everything was different now. His entire universe had been shaken up and turned completely upside down.

It had been just over a week since he buried his wife and unborn child. It was a quiet, subdued affair—full of tears, awkward silences, and scarcely comforting hugs. Once he'd come out of his grief-stricken stupor, everything in his and Mary's flat reminded him of what he had lost. So he fled.

His refuge was Baker Street—it always had been. Mrs Hudson gave him a sad smile and brief hug as she welcomed him into the hallway. The seventh step still creaked as he walked up the stairs and found Sherlock's familiar figure on the sofa, feet dangling over one armrest, his hands steepled over his chest.

The greeting was flat and casual; frigid and Sherlock-like to anyone who didn't know the man. "John."

An image from his memory replaced the one he was currently seeing: Mary sitting on this exact sofa, sipping a cup of tea and engaged in lively discussion with Sherlock over something rather insignificant. John had stolen glances at her, wondering how she could glow this much with 6lbs of human being sticking out of her.

Involuntary tears welled up in his eyes, and he blinked, harrumphing the emotions away. "Can I come in?"

Sherlock had yet to look at him. "Seeing how you're already _in_ the room, I'm not sure your question has much relevance."

John didn't have the strength to find an appropriate retort, so he simply took off his jacket and draped it over the backrest of one of the chairs by the desk. He studied Sherlock, who continued to lie motionless with his eyes closed.

"Working on anything interesting?" he inquired, trying to sound casual.

"Not currently. Solved a case yesterday afternoon. Very straightforward, really. Hardly worth the effort."

"Right."

John walked over to the window, taking in the view of Baker Street below. Remnants of last week's snowfall stubbornly clung to the kerb which lay unexposed to the sun, and the world outside was shrouded in the same gloomy January sludge as his soul.

He stood there for minutes, with neither he nor Sherlock speaking for a long while until John broke the silence.

"Mary."

In any other situation the mention of her name would have seemed out of the blue, but the despondent tone of his voice perfectly mirrored John's preoccupation with his late wife. He turned around to face Sherlock. "Mary. That's the first thing you said when you woke up after you were shot. Why is that?"

Sherlock's eyes were now open—clear and alert—while he remained silent.

John pressed on when no answer from his friend was forthcoming. "You knew, didn't you? She shot you knowingly, and you knew."

"Of course I knew. She was standing barely six feet away when she fired the gun." His forehead creased in a frown. "How is it that you're not aware of that?"

"Because we never talked about it."

"We didn't? I was almost sure that…" he trailed off. "Might've just been in my head, then."

"There's one thing I don't understand, Sherlock. She shot you in cold blood, yet not five days later, you practically drag her out here so I can forgive her. _You_ obviously did. In the blink of an eye."

"You should understand that I didn't do that for me."

"And that's the part I don't understand. You are not a selfless person. In fact, you're probably the most selfish person I've ever met."

"It's a tricky thing—forgiveness. You see, these things can appear perfectly simple when you observe them from the right angle. Mary could have killed me. A precision shot right between the eyes. Easy for her to execute, given her background. She chose to aim at my liver, calculating I would survive the injury if she called an ambulance within the next minute.

"It comes down to the simple fact that she could have executed me right there on the spot, and she didn't. Now, whether that was out of love for you, or out of loyalty to me, or even out of a motivation that personally eludes me is not my primary point of focus."

John closed his eyes and shook his head. "Sometimes I wish it was that simple."

"And yet, you forgave her."

"After an agonizing two months of staring at a flash drive."

"Do you regret that decision now?"

The way he asked it was almost innocent, but it filled John with an unexpected anger. "No, dammit, of course I don't regret that!"

The only sign of reaction to John's outburst was that Sherlock's eyes widened just slightly. "Then I don't see what the problem is."

John snorted a sarcastic breath through his nose. "The problem? The _problem_?! Jesus, Sherlock, you don't get it, do you? The problem is that _you_ forgave her, and _I_ forgave her, and maybe, just for a split second, we had a shot at a normal life together, as a family. And then all of that was taken from me!"

He clenched his fists as he continued, "Just two weeks ago, she was trying on new maternity dresses, picking out colours for changing pad covers, going on about the pros and cons of formula. And now she's…" His voice broke. "I just… I can't wrap my head around it."

It took all of John's resolve not to sink to his knees as a sob worked its way up his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing full well that he couldn't stop the tears from coming.

"John."

Sherlock's voice was soft, a compassion in it that was completely alien to John's ears. The image he saw was blurry, but the movement could only mean Sherlock had gotten up from the sofa, stepping closer to him, and—

"No," John said, raising his hand to fend off whatever Sherlock's intentions might have been, angrily wiping at the tears. He took a step back, his voice raspy from fighting through the sorrow. "No, Sherlock. You don't get to do this."

Sherlock just stood, his eyes cast downward, but his stance didn't betray the fact that he was ready. Ready to take on whatever it took, whatever was necessary. His voice was just above a whisper. "My last vow."

John struggled to regain his focus, the notion of being in control just barely out of reach. He lifted his eyes, meeting Sherlock's gaze. "What?"

"My last vow, do you remember it?"

John sniffled once, regaining a semblance of composure. "Yes."

"I meant it."

"Yes, well, you do see how that worked out, don't you?" The angry undertone was back. "You would be there for all three of us, isn't that what you said?"

He took a step closer to Sherlock, all his accusations at the ready. He raised his voice, "So where were you, Sherlock? Where were you when Mary needed you, when my daughter needed you?"

John took another step forward, his hands coming up to push Sherlock in the chest. "If anyone could have stopped it, it would've been you!"

"John," Sherlock tried to feebly protest, but John kept lashing out.

"Where the hell _were you_?!" he shouted.

"John," Sherlock repeated quietly, clasping John's right wrist where it was still pushing into his collarbone. "There is nothing more I wish in this world than to give you one more miracle."

That struck a chord, and John broke the physical contact, letting his hands sink to his sides when Sherlock softly released the hold on his arm. What remained for a long moment was despair and crestfallen surrender.

It was Sherlock who spoke first, and John thought he could see his friend's eyes glistening—a hint of tears that, for once, were not the result of ulterior motive. "Whatever it is I can offer, you have it."

John let out a breath that seemed to deflate his very being. Perhaps there was something that Sherlock could help him with. "I think I need to stay here for a while."

"Of course."

John nodded once, the load on his mind feeling just a little lighter.

He looked at the open door to the staircase, taking in the worn wooden steps leading upstairs. Something suddenly occurred to him and his mouth twitched into the slightest suggestion of a smile. "You're not conducting any gruesome experiments in my old room, are you?"

"Oh, I think you know Mrs Hudson wouldn't let me near it with anything other than a vacuum cleaner."

The smile widened. "You've never touched a vacuum cleaner in your life."

"Well, yes, there is that, but I believe it conveyed the message quite adequately."

John gave Sherlock a look that said everything he wanted to say. "Thank you."

Sherlock spun around perhaps a bit too dramatically. "So, yes, where were we? Weren't you inquiring about current cases?"

The tension broken, John couldn't help springing into action himself. "Anything interesting lined up?"

Sherlock pranced over to the laptop on the desk, opening up a program. "As a matter of fact, yes, I have. The strangest story of a man whose latest job requirement was to have red hair."

* * *

><p>THE END.<p> 


End file.
